The Wistful Witness
The red pigment was not bleeding, but it was certainly moving. You watched the crimson line, thin as a vein, crawl from the margin of the 1943 court transcript toward the center of the page, a slow hemorrhage of ink that defied every principle of archival preservation you had studied. Your fingertips, stained a faint pink from the handling, hovered over the document, trembling slightly with the...
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